Etiamsi Omnes, Ego Non
by portmanteau-press
Summary: When a person dies, those left behind are burdened with the unfortunate task of untangling their lives out from beneath a corpse. After Sherlock falls, those who knew him best must do so, too. But as the knot unravels and the startling interconnectedness of their lives comes to light, all are jeopardized. So what's the true cost of a death? And who really pays the price? Johnlock.
1. Prologue

It wasn't quite a nightmare.

It couldn't have been; he was still awake when it began. He remembered the feeling of his phone slipping from his hand, and the second of heavy silence before it clattered to the floor. It skittered away somewhere under the couch and he could tell by the sound that the screen had cracked, but he was already thinking of Harry, even before his knees gave out from beneath him. She'd be upset that he'd broken her old phone, the one she'd given him to keep in touch; she'd take offense, as though he'd done it on purpose just to spite her.

Of course, he hadn't spoken to Harry in years.

And that was the last thing John remembered before he hit the back of his head against the side table and blacked out—that he hadn't spoken to his sister in years. And wasn't that ironic, since he hadn't spoken to Sherlock in years either, and here the man had just now called him, out of the blue, as though he'd never died at all.


	2. Mrs Hudson

Mrs. Hudson had done most of the work. She knew John felt guilty, but she also knew he just couldn't bring himself to help, and so, when push came to shove, she hadn't pressed him. After all, she really didn't mind. And that was why, when it finally came time to box up all of Sherlock's things, Mrs. Hudson had been the one to do it. Clothes, books, furniture, stacks and stacks of files and old police reports, the vast array of chemistry equipment, all the chemicals.

In time, the flat was turned inside out: drawers were emptied, cupboards cleaned, and properly this time, the way they should have been from the start. Mrs. Hudson ran her pale hands across everything. There was, after all, a certain sanctity to it: touching each new object was like unearthing another little piece of Sherlock, getting to know him a second time over. The harpoon she discovered stashed in the bedroom closet had her laughing so hard her sides began to hurt. And the old pamphlet of railway times she'd dug out of Sherlock's dressing robe pocket—certain numbers and words had been circled in red pen and connected to one another in a small, incomprehensible web. Why? What did it mean? Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly; just another mystery Sherlock had taken with him to the grave.

Other finds were more troubling, like the small handful of needles sequestered in a slipcase in the back of a desk drawer. Mrs. Hudson purposefully positioned those at the very bottom of the bin, and reconciled not to tell John—best not to burden him further, poor man. The thought of the needles worried her, but soon enough she was on to other things: yellowing newspapers, where she discovered bits and pieces of Sherlock's handwriting in the margins between columns, and every word she could take in was like a small prize. Dishes, many of them chipped, and she rolled her eyes lovingly. Sherlock had been such a _terrible _cook.

Shoes.

For some reason the shoes made her cry. She thought she'd been past the tears, and yet, one afternoon halfway through the packing she found herself sitting on Sherlock's bed, sobbing, clutching a pair of his old oxfords to her chest. She pulled herself together eventually, and while they'd gone into a box along with everything else meant for donation, her heart ached for a long time afterwards, heavy with the thought of those shoes.

John, to his credit, did turn up occasionally, on his better days, and made an honest effort to help. Mrs. Hudson gave him small things to do—organize these odds and ends, label those boxes, move these things downstairs—simple things he could accomplish without much emotional exertion. And still, there were times when John lapsed into almost comatose silence, times when he'd find an object of Sherlock's and turn it over and over in his hands, shaking his head in wordless disbelief as tears streamed down his face, times he would shout at her suddenly, order her out of the flat and slam the door behind her so he could rage and cry and on occasion send some object flying across the room where it would collide with a wall and shatter, and she'd find him later sobbing over the broken parts, because oh god, it had belonged to Sherlock and it was all just too much, how was he ever going to make it through this, oh god, oh god. Those where the times Mrs. Hudson held John's hand, made him tea, sent him upstairs to rest or back home to his sister. And then she was back to work, untangling the jumbled mess that had belonged to the man she'd always quietly considered a son. There was a subtle rhythm to it, like a heartbeat. Books in these boxes, knickknacks in those, and these things to the side, for John to look over when he was feeling right again, just in case they were something he wanted to keep.

Just in case.

* * *

"Sell it," John barked suddenly. His voice had been flat and unexpressive, but wholly resolute. It had been less than three weeks since the funeral, and he'd been holding a folded copy of Sherlock's will in a trembling hand. Mrs. Hudson glanced up from the soap they'd been mindlessly watching together.

"What was that, dear?"

"Sell it," John repeated, motioning to the room and to all of Sherlock's things, now collecting a thin layer of dust as they entered the early stages of disuse. "I want it out. Gone." Mrs. Hudson's face fell.

"Oh come now John," she protested softly, "surely there's some things—"

"_All of it_, Mrs. Hudson."

"Don't you think Mycroft—"

"To hell with Mycroft!" John spat, springing up from the sofa at the mention of the name. Mrs. Hudson eyed him worriedly as he paced the room. "It's not _his_ decision," John growled, and his hand clenched around the will tighter. "I don't give a fuck about his title or his goddamn _security clearance_…they might have been brothers but—but…" John's face twisted up in anger as he attempted, unsuccessfully, to find the words. "It's NOT. HIS. DECISION," he finally seethed. For a moment it seemed he might crumple the will and hurl it across the room, but then, as quickly as the flash of anger had come, it dissipated, and John instead only sighed weakly, collapsing back onto the sofa next to Mrs. Hudson, looking much older than he had just minutes before.

"I can't keep it," he murmured finally, nodding to the room. "I can't look at it anymore." A strangled noise escaped his throat, and he cast his eyes around the flat helplessly, trying to piece together everything he needed to say. "I…I can't…" But his voice broke, and he gave up, raking in a long, shaking breath in an attempt to stifle a sob.

"All right, John," crooned Mrs. Hudson, hugging him gently. "It's all right." Gingerly, she extracted the will from his listless fingers, setting it down on a nearby table, out of sight. It was replaced a few minutes later with a freshly brewed cup of tea, and she nestled beside him, letting him lean into her. They proceeded to sip in silence, ignoring the still babbling television, staring down into their cups because there was too much Sherlock in everything else around them.

"Auction off whatever you can," John said at last, once he'd had some time to compose himself. His voice was raspy with the force required to suppress his emotions. "Anonymously, of course," he added quickly, and from the corner of her eye Mrs. Hudson caught him wince painfully as he said it. "Just in case…You know how people…how they are about him now."

Mrs. Hudson closed her eyes and swallowed thickly, doing her best to block from memory the long chain of excoriating headlines and news exposés. "Of course, John." Her voice was little more than a whisper.

"Pawn whatever's left. Or give it away. Throw it out. I don't care." John was talking automatically now, to the floor, the walls, his teacup. "I don't know what any of it will bring," he grumbled finally, "but I want you to keep whatever money you can make."

"Now John—"

"I'm serious, Mrs. Hudson." The edge in his voice made Mrs. Hudson keep her mouth shut, despite her want to protest. "It's really the least I can do." The harshness in his voice had died away, and as his sentence trailed off John stared into his tea, watching the dregs swirl about the bottom of the cup. He licked his lips nervously, and Mrs. Hudson could tell he was working up the courage to say something more.

"John." She placed her hands on his, steadying him, and when his eyes met hers she saw that they were bloodshot and tired and filled with tears. He was blinking quickly, trying to keep them at bay, but one managed to slip down his cheek, landing with a dull thud on his knee. "Oh John," she murmured, "please tell me." John covered his eyes with his hand, and for a moment it seemed he was about to break down, but in the end he only shook his head, wiping his nose unceremoniously on the back of his sleeve.

"I spoke with Harry yesterday," he finally mumbled, voice gravelly and low. "She's going to let me stay with her until I can get back on my feet and find a place of my own."

Mrs. Hudson swallowed, keeping a whimper locked staunchly away in her chest. For a split second she was filled with the wild urge to slap John across the face. But that was just the pain talking, she reasoned, and she could tell by the way John's jaw was set that he was no happier with his decision than she was.

"It's worse than Afghanistan," admitted John quietly, what felt like hours later. The tears had stopped, but his eyes were still damp and bleary, focused on the carpet. "I don't know why, or how…but _this_…this is so much worse."

"You loved him, dear," said Mrs. Hudson simply. "We both did."

"So then why did he do it, Mrs. Hudson?"

"I don't know, John."

* * *

Weeks later. 221B was empty. John blinked, squinting against the bright sunlight pouring into the flat from the open windows. The walls were bare, the furniture gone; everything that wasn't nailed down had been carted off and sold, or, in the case of his possessions, relocated to his sister's flat. The bullet holes had been tacked up. The yellow smiley had been papered over. This was goodbye. But, John thought, not really. Because it wasn't really his flat anymore, was it? It wasn't _theirs. _Nothing would ever be _theirs_ again.

He took a quavering breath, watching the dust mites drifting in the sunbeams, the only things moving in the room. They moved the way Sherlock had moved: graceful and lithe, and categorically remote. John's eyes followed one as it flowed up, looped about, zoomed back and forth, and then, without warning, fell into shadow and winked out of sight forever. John wanted to scream. He wanted to explode with rage, spew out some emotionally charged tirade filled with curses and illogic and everything, everything he felt he so desperately needed to say. But there was no one to hear it now, was there? No one there to be the sounding board—no cold, machine-like intellect to deflect it all effortlessly and then nitpick through the logical fallacies. There was no Sherlock here, and there wouldn't be again.

Only dust.

John turned and went downstairs.

Mrs. Hudson was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairwell with a hug and a large envelope.

"I didn't know quite what to do with these," she said, offering the envelope to John once he reached the ground level. "I couldn't sell them, and I didn't just want to throw them out. Thought it might be _illegal_." John cocked an eyebrow, throwing the now grinning Mrs. Hudson a questioning look before tipping the envelope over and dumping the contents into his hand: thirteen police badges.

"Christ," John whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. "He was fucking serious. I can't believe he was serious. Are these all Lestrade's?"

"I found them all over," whispered Mrs. Hudson conspiratorially, giggling despite herself. "Drawers, coat pockets, one in the kitchen cupboard if you'd believe it." She flipped one badge open to reveal a photo of a newly appointed D.I. Lestrade, looking almost comically youthful with a head of rich black hair. "Goodness, John! Can you believe how young he looks?"

"He hadn't known Sherlock long then, had he?" quipped John dryly, and Mrs. Hudson chuckled, helping John seal the badges back away inside the envelope.

"I know you and Greg keep in touch," she said finally, placing a loving hand on John's arm and giving it a squeeze. "I thought he might like them back"—a flicker of sadness darted across her face—"Well, after everything that happened down at the Yard, I thought he might appreciate it."

John nodded grimly. "They were too rough on him," he said, unable to keep faint disgust from rising in his voice. "It wasn't fair."

"It's been a difficult time for all of us, John," Mrs. Hudson offered, pulling John in for a long hug. "We all need each other right now." John nodded again, and kissed the top of his now ex-landlady's head affectionately. Mrs. Hudson's grip around him tightened. "You take care of yourself, John Watson," she said firmly. Although her face was half buried in his open jacket, John could tell her voice was riddled with tears. "Promise me you'll keep in touch with Greg and with me and that you'll get along with your sister and that you'll take _care_ of yourself, alright?" She grasped John's arms and shook him, with more force than John might have given the little woman credit. "_Promise me!_"

"I promise, Mrs. Hudson, I promise," said John, reeling, doing his best to hold on to Mrs. Hudson as, just like that, she crumpled into tears against his chest.

"Oh John," she managed, blurting words between thick sobs, clutching fistfuls of his shirt, "I miss him so much. He was so rude and made me so _furious _but I loved him so much. It isn't fair what happened to him. It isn't _right_." John stared numbly at the top of Mrs. Hudson's head, watching the details of the world frost over as his own eyes began to sting with tears.

Only when John's leg spasmed and threatened to give out beneath them both did Mrs. Hudson release him. "Oh," she sniffed, wiping away the remaining tears from her red eyes and watching as John steadied himself against the hallway wall. "I'm sorry, dear, I just got so caught up…How is it?"

"Fine," John replied stiffly, hardly bothering to veil the obvious lie, for both he and Mrs. Hudson knew his leg had been growing steadily worse since Sherlock's death. Mrs. Hudson's brow furrowed, and she looked ready to say something when a knock at the front door cut her off.

"That'll be your cab," she said, motioning towards the door as she retreated back down the hall to her own rooms. "Tell them to wait; I've one last thing for you before you go."

John had barely closed the door behind the grizzly-faced cabby when Mrs. Hudson returned, popping her head out of her doorway. "Now, don't be upset with me," she said sheepishly. "But I just couldn't bear to part with it." And when she emerged, John saw she was holding Sherlock's battered old violin case in her arms, cradling it like a child. Her eyes were misty as she walked over, holding it out for him to see. "He used to play for me, you know, back when we first met." Her face broke out into a small sad smile, and she ran her fingers lovingly along the grooves of the case, lost in the memory. "I think it was his way of apologizing to me for being such a terror."

"Sounds like him," rasped John. The lump in his throat made his voice hoarse and foreign-sounding.

"But he was such a _wonderful_ musician," continued Mrs. Hudson, almost to herself. "He could have played professionally if he'd wanted. I always told him that; of course he told me I was mad to even consider such a thing…rather spend his time chasing after criminals and solving mysteries, putting that brain to work. But I know he always secretly appreciated the admiration."

Mrs. Hudson paused. "I'm not sure…" she murmured slowly, voice barely audible, "I'm not sure he ever knew how good he really was." And she blinked, and so did John, because at that moment they both realized she wasn't really talking about music anymore. Mrs. Hudson looked up at John then, and, face set, thrust the case into his chest.

"Please take it, John."

For a moment, John stared down at the violin, unable to move and unsure of what to say. But then he shook his head. "No. You keep it, Mrs. Hudson." The landlady's eyes widened.

"John, I couldn't. It's rightly yours—" And she pressed the case harder against him, as if desperate to be rid of it.

"If it's mine, then it's mine to give away," John replied, and, gently but determinately, he pushed the case back to Mrs. Hudson, until she was cradling it once again. "I'm giving it to you." Mrs. Hudson's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John murmured. "For everything."

"Oh…" she finally managed. "Oh, _John_…"

John put his arms around her, resting his chin upon her head, and they stood embracing for a long while, silent and grief-stricken, with the violin between them. There was nothing left to say, and so they didn't speak; there were no tears left to be shed, and so they didn't cry. They simply held each other, all the while breathing in the steely scent of Sherlock that still clung tenaciously to the shadows of the building, even now.


	3. Greg Lestrade

"I'm warning you, the smell's absolutely horrid."

Greg Lestrade only nodded in curt acknowledgement, hurriedly shucking off his drenched outer coat as he closed the door behind him, shutting the storm out of the dilapidated apartment complex. "We've got forensics in there now," the sergeant continued, jerking his head upwards as he made his way down the last of the steps and onto the landing. In a practiced move he pulled off both his latex gloves and thrust them in his jacket pocket. "They've got their work cut out for them." Lestrade sighed heavily; he'd been hoping against hope that the initial reports had been at least somewhat exaggerated.

"It's the same M.O., then?"

"Unfortunately," the officer replied, throwing the newly appointed Detective Inspector a knowing look, one that said, _I'm certainly glad I'm not you right now._ Lestrade swallowed, awkwardly sidestepping to make way as two members of forensics, clad in their customary blue body suits, hustled into the narrow hallway and up the stairs carrying two floodlights and a tripod camera between them.

"I'm assuming the building's been evacuated?" Lestrade asked, once they'd passed him by.

"Yeah. We've taken the landlord and the neighbors in for questioning. The girlfriend, too."

"And?"

"And nothing—no one's heard or seen a thing. On account of all the noise from the storm…Well, that's what they're saying, sir."

"Of course," grumbled Lestrade, turning to make his way upstairs.

"There's no lift," the sergeant called after him. "It's a walk-up. Fourth floor." Lestrade's scowl deepened.

"_Perfect_."

* * *

"You didn't deserve to be fired."

John slams his empty pint down on the bar with a definitive thud. Lestrade frowns, pressing his lips together into a thin, white line as he watches his friend waver unsteadily in his seat. He's been mentally tallying John's drinks through the night, but has held his tongue, even now, as John's speech begins to slur. On any other night he might have said something. Tonight, however, Lestrade keeps his mouth shut: Sherlock's anniversaries are a difficult time for everyone, and hardest on John.

"You…" John starts again, working hard to keep his brain and tongue on the same page over the boisterous chatter filling the little pub. "I mean, what happened afterwards… It was all, it was all such a bloody mess, Greg. You didn't deserve to lose your job on top of everything."

Lestrade only shrugs, swallowing a sigh and staring down into the bottom of his gin.

"I broke the law, John," he says wearily, resting his chin in his hand and glancing up at his friend.

"A stupid law," John says.

"John, I didn't break it just once," Lestrade fires back. "I broke it many, many times over, from the very start of my career." His tone is matter-of-fact, but the lines seem paltry, and do little to soften the dull ache he's felt ever since the Chief Superintendent ordered him to clear out. "Technically," he says, gritting his teeth against the memory of slamming his badge down on the man's desk, "they didn't have a choice; they couldn't have kept me on if they'd wanted to." He swallows, then quietly adds, "And trust me, John. They didn't want to."

"Bollocks," John huffs, his customary tact mucked over by liquor and gloom. "Everyone knows you weren't the only detective in Scotland Yard consulting with Sherlock, but you were the only one who lost their job. Don't you get it? They fired you to prove a point, Greg—to make an example of you." His voice is bitter. "They fired you because you were his _friend_."

* * *

It was the third time the murderers had struck. Their methods were consistent, though Lestrade found that previous exposure hadn't made this fresh crime scene any easier to stomach. And that was exactly what the detective inspector found himself looking at as he stepped inside the run-down flat: a human stomach, slimy and foul-smelling and lying in a heap on the tile floor along with an assortment of various other organs, all coated in a nauseating soup of bile and blood.

"Christ…"

Lestrade's weary eyes travelled upwards, following a single band of small intestine up from the pile of organs to where it still connected with its previous owner: a stout, middle-aged man, clad only in boxers and dress socks and strung up with steel wire from the ceiling pipes. Lestrade cringed, watching as the body rotated ever so slightly in the air, toes dangling just inches from the soiled floor.

"Inspector!" The detective's focus swiveled from the gruesome scene towards the direction of the call. It wasn't hard to find the source—a young, fresh-faced officer doing her best to wade through the buzzing forensics team as she crossed the room towards him. "Sally Donovan," she said once she made it to his side, extending her hand to him and offering Lestrade a small, somber smile. "It's good to finally meet you, sir."

"And you," Lestrade replied, attention focused on a tall man as he snapped several photographs of the blood splatter decorating the kitchen wall. Shaking his head, he turned back to the young officer. "So, Donovan, what do we have so far? Please, tell me some good news."

"Sorry, sir," answered Donovan, flipping open the file she was holding and running a finger down the first few lines of notes. "His name's Thomas Haskell; we found an ID and his wallet in the bedroom. Not that we needed it; his girlfriend walked in on him like this coming home from her shift around 11:30 tonight. She's the one who notified us…She was practically hysterical by the time the officers arrived."

"I'll bet."

"We've got her down at the Yard now," Donovan continued, "though it might be a while before she's calm enough to answer any of our questions coherently. Anyways…there's no signs of burglary, no signs of forced entry"—she glanced up at Lestrade—"no signs of struggle. It's as though he simply welcomed them inside—"

"—So he could be disemboweled and hanged," finished Lestrade sullenly, glancing back up at the hanging victim. "Just like the others."

"Yes, sir," said Donovan, turning back to her notes. "He bled out due to the evisceration, though it appears he was strangulated simultaneously. See?" She pointed to the wire supporting the body, which was looped over a segment of exposed pipe running along the kitchen ceiling and bound at the sink faucet to keep the victim aloft. "There's slight bruising along the neck—he must have been strung up on his toes for at least twenty minutes before..." She paused, searching for the appropriate words. "…Before they made the incision."

"Like the others," repeated Lestrade, voice hollow. "Tortured and gutted, then hanged and left for us to find."

"Of course, we'll let the coroner have the final word," Donovan said, shrugging. "But it seems safe to assume that the methods will be consistent. Still, we didn't want to disturb the body until you'd had a chance to see it."

"And the symbol?" asked Lestrade, glancing about the room. "Did you find one?" Donovan nodded darkly.

"Avery!" she called, motioning across the room to a lanky, sandy-haired officer currently helping several members of the forensics team bag evidence. "The symbol!" He nodded, plucking one evidence bag out from the nearest pile. "It was taped to the victim's chest," Donovan said to Lestrade, holding the bag out to the inspector once Avery reached them. "Forensics removed it to take photographs of the body." Lestrade examined the contents with a furrowed brow. Inside was a single sheet of standard white computer paper, and printed in the center was the same curious symbol they'd found at the previous two crime scenes: a large hand drawn circle divided into fourths by a square cross.

"No other clues?" Lestrade ran his fingers over the odd markings before looking back up at his officers expectantly. "Anything out of the ordinary? Anything at all, besides this and our man hanging up there?"

"We're working on it, sir," answered Avery. "Forensics is dusting for prints right now. As for the symbol, we're still trying to trace a possible meaning—" His sentence was cut short as Lestrade's phone went off in his pocket. The inspector rolled his eyes at the distraction, motioning to Avery to say, _Just a sec_, and flipped his phone open.

_Hello, Detective Inspector_, read the text._ Having difficulty solving your case? Meet me outside in two minutes; I have a proposition that just might help you catch your killers._

Lestrade froze, blinking fast. He was finding it difficult to breathe, difficult to think, and despite the throngs of people around him he couldn't seem to hear a sound. Jerkily, he forced his eyes to go over the few lines of text again, and then a third time, and finally, once he'd convinced himself that the text did indeed say what he'd thought it said, he managed to thumb up to the top of the screen to see who had sent the mysterious message, only to read _blocked number_.

"Sir? Sir?" Donovan's voice wavered back into Lestrade's head. "Is there a problem, sir?"

"What?" Lestrade snapped his phone shut, blinking up at the confused faces of Donovan and Avery. "What did you say?"

"I only asked if there was a problem," Donovan repeated, gesturing to Lestrade's phone.

"N-no, no," said Lestrade, nervously stumbling over his words. "They, ah, that is, I need to get back to the Yard…" His head was still swimming, frantically running through his options.

"Okaaay…" said Donovan slowly, throwing Lestrade a questioning look that made it clear she didn't quite believe him. "Inspector, are you sure—"

"_I want a thorough investigation of the flat_," ordered Lestrade suddenly, cramming enough forcefulness into his voice to cut off Donovan's inquiry and snap both officers before him back to attention. "I don't want so much as a square inch forgotten, understood? Run a background check on Haskell, see if you can't dredge up some connection to the other victims. And figure out what the hell _this_ means," he said, thrusting the evidence bag back into Avery's hands. He turned on his heel, making for the door. "I want your full report on my desk tomorrow morning, Donovan," he said, pointing back at her. His eyes gravitated back to the hanging man a final time. There was a thin trickle of blood trailing from the corner of his mouth.

"And for god's sake," Lestrade cried, no longer able to keep his anger contained. "_Cut him down!_"

* * *

"You know, early retirement's not really as bad as everyone says it is," says Lestrade, forcing a rough smile. John is sullen, and he's anxious to change the topic to something more cheerful. "I finally divorced the wife, which should have happened ages ago. 'Course I don't really need the house now that it's just me…actually, I was thinking of doing a bit of traveling. Get myself out of London for a while."

"Sounds nice," says John, though his tone is dismal.

"Anyways," Lestrade presses, "I can't just sit alone in that house all by myself for the rest of my life. People have to move on. You know. You've got Mary now, and—what?" John's ruddy face shutters at the mention of Mary's name, and Lestrade frowns, confused. "Aren't—aren't you together anymore?"

"No, we are," John mumbles, but the way he bites his lip and shifts awkwardly as he speaks tells Lestrade they've stumbled onto an uncomfortable subject.

"Sorry, mate," Lestrade says quickly, clapping a hand on John's shoulder and giving him a light squeeze. "Look, forget I said it. Anyways—"

"She won't sleep with me," blurts John, a little too quickly, a little too loudly. Lestrade blinks, watching as a man sitting beside them at the bar glances up and arches an eyebrow in their direction. Slowly, Lestrade lowers his hand from John's shoulder.

"Whenever we see each other we argue," John says, his face twisted in a mixture of frustration and drunken sorrow, and it's not readily apparent if he's talking to Lestrade or to himself. "She says I'm depressed," he groans. "She says she can't trust me. She says she doesn't know if I really love her. She says…she says I…." _She says I have a problem_. John doesn't say that part aloud, and yet it's come out anyways, somehow. He grasps his empty pint like an anchor, but his eyes are full of spite.

* * *

The rain had stopped, though a few persistent rolls of thunder still trembled overhead as Lestrade stepped anxiously outside. He couldn't believe he was actually _doing _this…for all he knew it was a stupid prank…or something infinitely more dangerous. He could be walking right into a trap. Still, if there was someone out there who had information, could he afford to ignore the opportunity? Someone who could put a stop to these terrible murders…did the potential benefit outweigh the risk? Lestrade's eyes scanned the narrow street, trying to pick out from between the flashing lights and yellow police tape any sign of the mysterious texter. And then—

_Ping!_

Lestrade swallowed hard, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his phone. It was a second text, again labeled _blocked call_.

_Glad to see you've accepted my offer_, he read._ Meet me two blocks north of your current position. Walk. And please, Inspector, come alone._

Lestrade blinked, at once furious and frightened. He wheeled about, attempting in vain to pinpoint how on earth the texter was following his movements, causing two officers milling by a nearby car to quirk an eyebrow in his direction. Lestrade scowled in response, shrugging on his coat and stuffing his phone deep into a side pocket. For a few seconds he remained motionless on the stoop, trying to decide what to do, until a distant peal of thunder spurred him into action. Nestling deep into his collar he started onto the street, ducking under several lines of police tape as he turned northbound along the pavement.

"Pretty nasty in there, eh, Inspector?" called one of the milling officers after him, chuckling softly as he nudged his partner in the arm. His mocking tone was evident even at a distance. "Need a breath of fresh air?"

"At your _post_, Lieutenant!" shouted Lestrade over his shoulder, more ferociously than he'd ever spoken to an officer before. The young Lieutenant's mouth snapped shut, and Lestrade reeled back around in a huff, crossing his arms across his chest as he stalked down the street, leaving the crime scene and the two bewildered officers behind him.

He didn't know who, or _what_, he was supposed to be looking for. He kept his eyes peeled for suspicious activity, but the father he walked the more Lestrade felt he'd been taken for a fool. In the early hours of the morning the streets were deserted, and even the hefty weight of the gun holstered at his side was little comfort against the damp night. By the time he'd reached the designated intersection—also deserted—Lestrade was ready to turn around, but a sudden flash of headlights off to his right made the detective stop dead in his tracks. Peering into the shadow, Lestrade could just barely make out the outline of a black car parked silently along the side of the street. He swallowed, feeling his pulse begin to race. Stupid, stupid, stupid—what the hell had he gotten himself into—?

The car door opened. Lestrade pivoted defensively, hand reaching inside his jacket for his gun—

"Oh come now, Detective Inspector," a man's voice cut through the darkness. "That's really not necessary." Lestrade's lips twitched, hand poised over the butt of his pistol.

"Identify yourself," he called out, working hard to keep his voice calm and breathing steady. He couldn't see, but rather heard, as a man stepped onto the slick pavement and closed the car door behind him. Wordlessly, he began to make his way towards Lestrade, though there was an odd rhythm to his step, as though he was walking with a cane. "I'm ordering you, _identify yourself!_" shouted Lestrade, more forcefully this time, and in a flash he pulled his gun, focusing his aim at the center of what he could just barely make out as a tall male figure. The man stopped.

"My name," the man said, taking great care to articulate each word perfectly, "is Mycroft Holmes." He took one more step forward, allowing the yellow glow of an overhead streetlight to illuminate his frame. Lestrade noted that he was not walking with a cane, but rather an umbrella. "And it's very good to meet you at last—" the man's lips curved up in a smile "—Greg Lestrade." Lestrade's eyes narrowed.

"You—you're the one who sent me those messages?" he asked, keeping his gun trained on the shadowy man's chest.

"Of course."

"How do you know my name? Who are you?"

"I know a good deal about you, Detective Inspector," said the man, tipping his head to the side with a grin. "And, as I just now said, my name is Mycroft Holmes."

"Mycroft Holmes," Lestrade repeated, turning the bizarre moniker over in his head. "Is that a name I'm supposed to recognize?"

"Oh, I certainly hope not," said the man with a chuckle. He took a step closer to Lestrade and arched his eyebrows expectantly. "Now, Inspector, do lower your weapon. This is a rather rude introduction, I must say. After all, I've come to help you."

"Come to help me with the case, you mean?" Mycroft Holmes's eyes gleamed hungrily in the low light.

"Come to help you _solve_ it."

* * *

"I just want a normal relationship," says John, still cradling his drink in his hands. "Just something normal. Is that too much to ask?" His words are pained and almost desperate, but Lestrade knows John well enough to know that this isn't really the truth.

"You know, John," he says, taking great care to approach the sensitive topic in just the right way, "you don't have to do things just to be _normal_."

John looks up, eyeing him sharply. "What do you mean?"

"What I _mean_, John," says Lestrade softly, "is that you can't run away from the memory of Sherlock forever. There's no point in trying to compensate for it. If you don't want to move in with Mary—if you're not ready—you don't have to. If you don't want to be with her, you don't have to. You have plenty of perfectly valid reasons to walk away, or at least to take things slowly, and no one would understand better than me if you did. I know how hard it was for you when Sherlock died, John. _I saw it_. But don't screw yourself over now," he continued, eyeing John's empty pint wearily as he spoke, "inventing ways to push her away just because you don't want to admit the truth."

"Jesus," John moans, and his head sinks into his hands. "I love her so much…and I miss _him_ so much, still. I don't know why it always feels like the same thing. Why does it always feel like the same thing?" Lestrade bites his lip, at a loss for how to help. But something is welling up within him all the same, climbing up the back of his throat and scratching at his tongue to get out. Something he's wanted to say for ages.

"Have you been to the cemetery today?" he asks quietly. John groans something incomprehensible, but he shakes his head, burying his face deeper in his arms.

"John," Lestrade murmurs, and his face is pallid though John can't see it. "John, I need you to do me a favor."

John lifts his head just enough to look at Lestrade through the corner of one eye. "What?"

"I need you to tell Sherlock something for me."

* * *

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably against the car's leather interior, wrapping himself up tighter in his coat. Mycroft sank into the seat next to him with an easy sigh, tapping gently on the glass divider to indicate to the driver to pull away. The car engine churned to life at once, and they started down the labyrinth of narrow streets.

"Cigarette?" Lestrade glanced up to see Mycroft offering him a sliver case.

"I'm trying to quit," the detective said automatically. Mycroft only grinned, plucking two cigarettes out of the case and putting one to his lips.

"As you've been saying for some time, Inspector," he murmured softly, offering the other to Lestrade as he slipped the case back into his breast pocket. "Now, don't make me ask you again." Lestrade frowned, eyeing Mycroft with distrust. But the man's face gave nothing away, and, feeling at a loss for what else to do, he slowly reached up for the remaining cigarette.

"There, now," said Mycroft pleasantly, once both men had lit up and were puffing away. "On to business."

"Which is _what_, exactly?" Lestrade quipped, keeping his eyes carefully glued to Mycroft and his body tensed for the first signs of foul play. The man paused a moment before responding, his masklike face analyzing Lestrade with an expression at once distant and calculating.

"I have a proposition for you, Inspector," Mycroft finally answered, voice perfectly apathetic despite his exacting stare. "One I thought you'd be interested in discussing privately, face-to-face." With a small bow of his head he indicated the car around them. "Hence all this."

"No blackmail," Lestrade snapped instantly, biting down fiercely on the end of his cigarette and daring—regardless of how uncomfortable it made him—to stare deep into Mycroft's unreadable eyes. "_And no bribes._" Mycroft chuckled.

"Nothing of the sort," he said, waving his hand lightly as if shooing away a bug. "Quite the opposite in fact." Lestrade frowned.

"What are you on about?" But Mycroft only smiled, shifting his gaze from Lestrade and turning to stare absentmindedly out the window.

"How many murders has it been so far, Inspector?" Mycroft asked suddenly. "Three?" Lestrade blinked, caught off-guard by the question.

"Fairly gruesome ones, too," Mycroft continued, clearly not in the mood to wait for a reply. "Or at least, that's how the stories go. Hangings, eviscerations, mysterious symbols…pretty nasty business, if you ask me. And how many weeks since the first attack?"

"I—"

"Oh, not even four, not even four weeks, Inspector," Mycroft interrupted, tone lightly chiding, like a parent chastising a child. "And despite your best efforts, you're no closer to solving the case than you were then—" his eyes swiveled to meet Lestrade's "—are you?" Lestrade gaped.

"H-how do you…" he stammered, feeling tendrils of panic inch up his spine. "We haven't released those details to the public—"

"I am not the _public_, Inspector," hissed Mycroft, doing little to conceal the disdain in his voice as he spoke the word. His nose crinkled, and he took a long drag on his cigarette as if to burn away the unpleasant association.

"However, I admit it must be hard for you," he continued at last, turning his attentions out the window again. "New to your post, in charge of your first important case, and it's simply murder after murder and there's nothing you can do to stop it, nothing you can do to figure out what it all _means_." Lestrade swallowed thickly, burning ash falling unnoticed onto his jacket lapel.

"I…"

"Nearly four weeks of intense investigation and nothing to show for it…All those sleepless nights, tossing and turning…You must feel overwhelmed, to say the least—"

"I…"

"Poor man, you feel it unraveling, don't you—your whole illustrious career, over before it even began…" His nonchalant tone became outright cruel as he plucked the remaining cigarette stub from his lips, inspecting the smoldering embers with hard eyes. "That common drive to prove one's self," he murmured icily, "thwarted in its very infancy." Lestrade ground his teeth; he could feel his face twisting in rage, his fingers clenching into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

"Stop this," he hissed. But Mycroft showed no inclination of obliging.

"Powerless," the man continued on, his words pressing into Lestrade like hot pins. "Incompetent. But I'm sure you've heard it already, haven't you, Inspector? Murmurings—dissention in the ranks? The whispering that stops suddenly when you walk into a room, the eyes that follow you about but won't look at you directly." Mycroft paused, the barest hint of a cold smile tugging at his lips. "The inferior officer, bold enough to mock you to your face."

Lestrade felt his stomach bottom out. Was it really possible? Could this man—a man he'd never seen before in his life—have possibly witnessed what had just transpired outside the crime scene? His face flushed further, now not simply with anger, but with shame. He could barely make out what Mycroft was saying over the ringing in his ears.

"But I'm sure that stings the worst," the man went on, "is that you know exactly what they're all thinking, what each and every person at Scotland Yard is thinking, because you're thinking it yourself—"

"_Shut up…_"

"That you _can't _do it—"

"_Stop…_"

"That you're the wrong man for the job."

Lestrade had always prided himself in the knowledge that he was not a man who lost his temper often. These, however, were extenuating circumstances. He didn't know quite what he screamed to Mycroft that night, but he did know that it was one of the dirtiest, most vulgar string of expletives he'd ever uttered in his 32 years of life. It was unattractive and crass, but Lestrade didn't care—he wanted Mycroft to _choke _under the pressure of his words. Of course he didn't, and instead simply sat through the tirade looking nothing but tired and bored, which only served to infuriate Lestrade further.

"Calm yourself, Inspector," Mycroft interjected finally, once Lestrade had at last run out of breath and simply had no energy left to yell. His tone was as soothing a tone as his cold, genteel voice could manage. "Believe it or not, I do not share the suspicions of your colleagues."

"Oh no?" Lestrade spat, still breathing heavily, still fighting the very strong urge to punch Mycroft square in the face.

"No," answered Mycroft simply, calmly pulling another cigarette from his case as if oblivious to the white-hot ire radiating from the man next to him. "In fact," he continued, "I believe that in due time you'll prove to be a fine Detective Inspector—a model member of the force."

For what seemed a very long time—though in retrospect Lestrade supposed it couldn't have been more than a few minutes—neither man spoke. It took Lestrade a moment to realize that with that final comment Mycroft had in fact paid him a kind of compliment, though its backhandedness did little to alleviate the fury still eating away at his insides. Mycroft, falling back into what seemed to be a pattern of nonchalance, took the silence as an opportunity to do little except ignore the inspector's scowls, nursing his cigarette and peering down to inspect his fingernails with irritating frequency.

At last, and with what he remembered in the future as great force of will, Lestrade managed to reign in his temper. It pained him, but really, it wasn't as though Mycroft had said anything he didn't already know himself. Nothing, he thought, hurt worse than the truth. Mycroft, sensing the mood in the car had shifted, sighed with a small, placid smile and cleared his throat, clearly eager to proceed. Lestrade's lips pressed into a thin line, but he slowly shifted his gaze to meet the other man's.

"Yes?"

"As I was saying, Inspector," said Mycroft, his voice fringed with a gentleness that Lestrade could tell was a mark of careful diplomacy, "You possess the full capacity to excel in your new post. Still, it's said even the best of us—"the yellow glow of a passing streetlight momentarily illuminated his impassive face "—must occasionally ask for help." And here, in a gesture as carefully crafted as his tone, Mycroft reached into his jacket pocket and removed a white business card, offering it to the detective.

Lestrade's lip curled; he thought it a better idea to spit in Mycroft's face than to take it, and yet…and yet, as wounded as his pride was, he couldn't deny that a small part of him was intensely curious. The man was a pretentious prick, but Lestrade had to admit that Mycroft seemed to be offering him something…_monumental_. Quickly, before he could convince himself to do otherwise, he snatched the card from Mycroft's outstretched hand.

The paper was heavy, plain and unadorned. Lestrade squinted, barely able to make out the print in the dim light of the car:

SHERLOCK HOLMES

Consulting Detective

There was an address in the bottom corner, but nothing else. Lestrade flipped the card over, hoping for more information. Blank. Frowning, he looked up at Mycroft, who was peering intently at him over the end of his cigarette.

"Is this some kind of joke?"

"I'm afraid not, Inspector," said Mycroft, sighing in a way that hinted he wished it were.

"What the _fuck _is a…a _consulting_ detective? I've never heard of such a thing."

"Of course not," replied Mycroft. "My brother is, as he is so oft to admit, the only one in the world." Lestrade snorted, shaking his head.

"Well, it's good to see nepotism is alive and well," he said, settling back in his seat and feeling no small sense of satisfaction as he watched Mycroft narrow his eyes in displeasure.

"I'd advise you to take this opportunity seriously," Mycroft growled, voice steely. "You know as well as I do that lives are on the line, to say nothing of your reputation. I'm giving you a chance to solve your case in a matter of days—"

"Days?!" Lestrade scoffed. "Impossible—"

"For you, yes, but not for Sherlock!" Mycroft interjected, his voice becoming louder in intensity though not in volume. "And he'd do it quicker if you'd cooperate with him fully, though of course you won't." He sighed. "But you will learn to, in time. If you value your job and the safety of the city you've sworn to protect, Detective Inspector Lestrade, you will learn to trust Sherlock Holmes, mark my words_._ You have no other _choice_."

"The police…." Lestrade swallowed but set his jaw, determined not to quail under Mycroft's astringent gaze. "The police don't consult amateurs, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock is no _amateur_, Inspector," said Mycroft. "He possesses, with one or two possible exceptions, the greatest analytical mind in all of London, which could rival any the world has ever seen, and you'd do well to take advantage of what he can offer. Not to say that your relationship will be an easy one—I know for a fact he will annoy you, that he will offend you, that he will frustrate you endlessly. He will not care that he does any of these things; in fact he will most likely draw some sense of perverted satisfaction from the knowledge that he's just about as close to completely unlikable as possible. But, Detective Inspector—" and here Mycroft's voice grew deathly serious "—Sherlock _will_ solve your case. I guarantee it."

* * *

"You know the last thing I ever said to him? You're under arrest. I stood in your flat and I handcuffed him and read him his rights and that was it. After all the times he helped us, John, helped _me_—I couldn't even begin to name all the cases he solved almost singlehandedly, all the lives he saved, and he never asked a thing in return. But still, that's what I did—I arrested him. I arrested Sherlock Holmes for the crime of being brilliant."

Lestrade is staring at his hands and the napkin he's twisting between his fingers, forcing the words up from his throat one by one. It doesn't matter that each syllable stings like bile—now that he's started he can't stop. He needs to say this. _He needs John to know._

"I trusted him," Lestrade continues, swallowing thickly. "And…and he trusted me, I think, in his own way. My god, John, we were _friends. _And the first chance I got, the first _real_ chance I got to take his side, I…_didn't_. I was supposed to protect him, to _believe _in him, and I…I…" His sentence trails away. "My first real opportunity to do something courageous," he finally spits, "and instead I threw Sherlock to the wolves."

John stares into the top of Lestrade's downturned head. Lestrade can hear his shallow breathing, in and out, in and out.

"I've—I've gone out to the grave," the ex-detective inspector murmurs. "I've…tried to explain to him myself. But I think…what I mean to say is, I think he'd believe it more, coming from you. He only ever really listened to you. So tell him for me, when you see him. Please. Tell him I'm sorry." His voice hitches, not quite a sob. "_I'm so fucking sorry, John._"

Lestrade is still looking at his hands, and at the napkin, now reduced to shreds. John's silence is excruciating. And then suddenly, and without a word, John stands, slamming his drink down on the bar. Lestrade's heart sinks. Here it is, finally: all the fury, all the rage. Everything he deserves for so utterly betraying one of the two last good men in London, and leaving the other to rot away in perpetual mourning. He closes his eyes and his muscles tense, so badly in fact that when John does collide with him, he lets out a little cry of pain. Except that it isn't pain he's feeling. It's…arms.

John's arms, wrapping tightly around him.

John is hugging him.

* * *

Lestrade turned the card over in his fingers slowly, turning the offer over in his head.

"You seem pretty certain I'm going to take you up on this." Mycroft merely smiled his small, thin smile.

"Only," he answered quietly, "because I'm _absolutely_ certain you will." And before Lestrade could respond, the car, as if on cue, slowed to a halt.

"I believe this is your stop, Inspector," said Mycroft coolly, indicating the window. Confused, Lestrade peered outside and was shocked to see his narrow townhouse through the tinted glass, neat and prim and just as he'd left it that morning, though significantly wetter after the night's storm.

"How did you—?"

"I haven't informed Sherlock you'll be stopping by," Mycroft said, once again managing to sidestep Lestrade's question completely. "He isn't very keen on accepting help, you see, mine least of all, and my asking him to be on his best behavior would only ensure he'd be on his very worst. He'll work out I've sent you, of course, but now you at least have a chance of getting in the door."

"And once I do, _if _I do?" Lestrade asked. "What am I going to find?" Mycroft's face, if possible, grew even colder.

"Nothing very pleasant," the man murmured bitterly. "Still, better you see him that way, I suppose, and know from the start what you're getting into."

Was that a warning? It must have been, and yet Mycroft had barely finished speaking when the door next to Lestrade opened, revealing a towering man whose bulky physique was just barely contained in a trim dark suit. Without a word he quickly ushered Lestrade from the car and to the pavement, then shut the door behind the detective and clambered back into the vehicle. A moment later the engine revved to life and the back window rolled down, revealing Mycoft's face. It was nestled in shadows, yet for the first time that night Lestrade found could see the man clearly, and he was shocked by how young Mycroft really was, despite his snobbery and posh suit and thinning hair—he couldn't have been more than a year or two older than Lestrade himself.

"I do apologize for the inconvenience," Mycroft crooned, voice silky in the clear night air. "But I hope we've reached an understanding?"

"Who the hell _are _you?" spat Lestrade, leaping out of the way of the man's attempt to peg him into an agreement. Mycroft pursed his lips for a moment, seemingly amused.

"_That_," he finally answered, "depends on whom you ask. I've been called heartless. I've been called cruel. I've been called brilliant. I've been called the embodiment of the British government itself. Most people, though, call me nothing at all, because most people have no idea I exist. I prefer things that way, Detective Inspector. Tonight, however…" Mycroft paused, and for the briefest moment Lestrade could have sworn he detected a flicker of pain behind the man's carefully composed exterior. "Tonight," Mycroft continued, "I am merely a humble man, a brother, asking for a favor." His eyes roved over Lestrade a final time. "I have faith you'll do the right thing. You need each other, after all." He made to roll the window up, but paused again, and with a grin pointed up to a CCTV camera bolted to the corner of a nearby building.

"I'll be watching."

And then the car pulled away, gliding like a slick drop of oil into the damp London night.

* * *

Lestrade is hardly aware of the awkward hush that has settled over the pub, of the stares and muffled sniggers and, from somewhere in the back, the high notes of a wolf-whistle. All he can think about, all his brain has room for at that moment, is how very _alive _he feels, right now, with John's arms wrapped around him. It's as though a massive weight has been swept from his chest. Slowly, hardly able to believe that it's happening at all, he raises his arms to return the embrace, twisting his neck slightly to accommodate John's face, which is buried deep in the crook of his shoulder.

"John…" he rasps, feeling strangely compelled to speak, if only to express how very unbelievable it is that John is forgiving him.

"John," he says again. But John merely shakes his head to silence him, gripping Lestrade harder.

Lestrade doesn't know how long they remain like that, silently clutching one another like lovers in the middle of the crowded little pub. But when they do finally part, both men find their eyes damp and their throats tight with an emotion neither can really name. John slumps back into his seat, looking at once much older and much younger than his years.

He looks, Lestrade realizes, like Sherlock.

"You know," the ex-Detective Inspector mumbles, jerking his head to indicate the others in the pub, "people might talk." A smile tugs at his mouth. John scoffs, tossing his head over his shoulder.

"Well_,_" he says, loudly enough that the entire pub can hear, "people can just _piss off!_" And Lestrade can't help but laugh when he sees the man at the bar next to them squirm in his chair and divert his eyes back down to the bottom of his drink.

"Anyways," John says, turning his attention back to his friend, "I'm used to it." And when he smiles, it's a more genuine smile than Lestrade has seen from him in years.

* * *

It was bitterly cold.

It hadn't been five days since his encounter with Mycroft, but in that short time winter had managed to sink its claws into London with a vengeance, freezing over puddles and dragging Lestrade into the bitterest of moods. He breathed into his frigid fingers to warm them, glancing up angrily at the grey sky one last time before returning his focus to the intercom box and list of names posted outside the street side door of the row of flats, and to one name in particular, eighth down from the top. "Sherlock Holmes," it read. Flat 27. Lestrade reached out, finger poised above the buzzer, then recoiled. _My god, _he thought, _what the hell am I doing? _And he turned and was just about to head home when a particularly nasty gust of wind blew through the narrow street, and in that instant Lestrade turned, grit his teeth, and, for reasons he never quite figured out, rang the world's only consulting detective.

For a few seconds, there was no response. And then he heard it, a low voice strung through with static. "Yes?"

"Mr. Holmes?" called Lestrade, pressing his body against the door to stand against the wind. "Mr. Holmes, my name is D-Detective Inspector Lestrade, and I was hoping to—"

"Come in."

The response was so sudden and short Lestrade wasn't sure he'd heard correctly until the door's automatic lock clicked open beside him. Lestrade hurried inside, beating down feelings of trepidation as he made his way upstairs to 27. When he finally reached it, he saw that while the door stood ajar to allow him in, the metal "7" once nailed to it had fallen off, replaced by a number hand-written in what looked like permanent marker. _Not a great sign_, Lestrade thought miserably. But he'd come this far, and pushed the door open anyways.

Entering the flat was like stepping into a madhouse. The space itself was little more than a studio, but every inch was positively crammed with _stuff_: books, papers, a bevy mix-matched furniture, at least four secondhand rugs strewn overlapping upon the hardwood floor (though their patterns could scarcely be seen beneath the mass of tattered sheet music and rumpled clothing littering the ground). Every level surface was piled with the oddest collection of objects imaginable—a partially-dismantled computer, a vial brimming with formaldehyde and a small reptile, a corroded car battery and a set of spark plugs, a molding sandwich beneath a bell jar—just to name a few. Lestrade gaped, turning just enough to take in what couldn't be seen immediately from the doorway, and found half a laboratory in what had once been the kitchenette, beakers and test tubes and endless containers of chemicals, and at least one live Bunsen burner, with something clear and acrid-smelling boiling away in the heat of its tiny blue flame.

If an antique store and mad scientist's keep could reproduce, thought the Detective Inspector, this would surely be the result. In fact, the only thing that appeared even marginally normal about the flat was a small cleared space at the edge of the central coffee table, where a chessboard had been carefully laid out for two. But even this had a touch of the patently absurd, for several of the pieces had been lost and replaced (a bobbin for a rook, a bullet for a pawn), and set at one side was a human skull surrounded by a small collection of stolen pieces, as though it'd been playing opposite its owner.

Lestrade blinked, trying to take it in. But it was all so…so _much—_

"Hello, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade nearly jumped out of his skin, and his eyes swiveled up anxiously to find the source of the voice. It took Lestrade a moment to find the man, but then, suddenly, there he was, sitting in the midst of his strange possessions like the epicenter of an earthquake, curled up on the window's ledge like a great overgrown cat: Sherlock Holmes.

He was somewhere in his late twenties, and bore, Lestrade noticed immediately, very little resemblance to his brother. For while Mycroft had been all rounded curves, Sherlock had a body of angles, long limbs folded into one another like a living paper crane. And while Mycroft's hair had been neat and primly styled, Sherlock's was messy, long, and unkempt, dark curls falling haphazardly across his thin face and pooling at his shoulders. They stood out starkly against his pale skin, paler now in the cool light pouring in from the window, though his clear grey eyes shone brightly in it, keen and penetrating and very much like a hawk's. If there was any family resemblance at all, thought Lestrade, it was in those eyes. And they were watching him now—Lestrade could feel the strength of the gaze, pressing into his skin in a way that was almost palpable. And yet, strong as it was, the brightness in Sherlock's eyes almost immediately glazed over, and he let his forehead fall with a soft thud against the window pane, staring down into the streets below.

"I've been watching the people," he murmured vapidly, seemingly unaware that this was not a relevant topic of conversation, nor a particularly sane one, nor an appropriate way to greet a man he'd just met seconds ago. "See?" Sherlock's breath fogged the glass as he spoke. "There's a stockbroker who's cheating on his wife with another man…A vicar wearing a stolen watch…A writer here on holiday from Germany to visit his sister, who's in hospital with a broken arm…Ah, there—a widower buying sweets for his grandchildren—" he paused for a moment, biting his lip "—he's going to see them tomorrow afternoon, but is nervous as he's recently become estranged from their mother, his daughter-in-law." His eyes traveled back up to meet Lestrade's, and he offered, as if by way of explanation: "Family squabble over his late wife's will." Baffled, Lestrade only blinked, not sure if Sherlock was mad or joking or both.

"Mr. Holmes," he started, feeling completely out of sorts and wanting nothing more than to turn and walk straight out of the flat. "I'm here—"

"I know why you're here." There was no hint of uncertainty in Sherlock's voice. Slowly, all the while keeping his strangely dull eyes fixed on Lestrade, he pivoted his body, swinging his legs around and planting his bare feet firmly on the floor. It was only then that the Detective Inspector realized that Sherlock was wearing nothing but his pants and an open dressing robe, a combination that left little to the imagination and only compounded Lestrade's growing unease. "You have a case," Sherlock continued, standing and taking a few steps into the middle of the room. "A case for me to solve."

"I—erm," spluttered Lestrade, casting his gaze about the room in an effort to keep from staring at Sherlock's crotch. "That is…" And then his eyes landed on something altogether more disturbing than everything else in the flat combined. His body stiffened, and he could feel his face harden in contempt. Sherlock, seeing Lestrade's sudden change of expression, traced his gaze to a nearby table, and sighed.

"You're not going to arrest me," he said plainly, making no attempt to hide the recently used needle, spoon, and lighter sitting there next to a small empty bag. His voice was calm and matter-of-fact, and contained no trace of apology or plea. Lestrade scowled.

"I could," he seethed, hating the fact that he'd been tricked into doing something as ludicrous as coming to ask this man for help, a man who was clearly a lunatic and a junkie to boot. "And I _should_. Possession and use of an illegal substance—that's five to seven years, at least." But Sherlock didn't even flinch.

"You're not going to arrest me," he repeated, and Lestrade hated him for that, because it was true. Because how could he possibly explain his meeting Sherlock? _Oh, well, I'd just stopped by to his flat to consult him on the Shepfield murders…just feeling a bit out of my depth, you know, and thought it wouldn't hurt to ask a civilian for a bit of help on a classified case—how was I to know he'd turn out to be a heroin addict…? _Forget about just losing his job—Lestrade would be lucky if they didn't clap him in irons alongside Sherlock. He closed his eyes, hating himself for being such an unbelievable fool. When he opened them again, Sherlock was still staring at him, hands resting on his hips and a look of the utmost apathy plastered on his face.

"You're right, I'm not going to arrest you," Lestrade said, with as much dignity as he could muster. "But, I'm not asking you for help, either." And without another word he turned to leave, never wanting to see Sherlock Holmes (or his brother, for that matter) again. He had almost reached the door when Sherlock spoke.

"You used to sail when you were younger."

Lestrade froze in his tracks, blood turned to ice in his veins. Impossible. There was no way _this_ man, a man he'd never met before in his life, could have known something like that—

"You're new to your post at Scotland Yard," Sherlock continued, talking into Lestrade's back. "And newly married. You don't own pets, but you'd like to, though you know you wouldn't have the time to care for them properly. A smoker, but trying to quit, for your health and also now for your wife, who dislikes the habit. Got into a bad fight back in university; lost your vision in your left eye for a while and it's never fully recovered. That weakness makes you nervous on the job, which doesn't help your already low self-confidence."

Slowly, Lestrade turned around to face Sherlock, horrified. He could feel his hands shaking. "How...?"

"Stubborn," Sherlock interrupted, ignoring him. "Which makes you short-sighted. Oh, and you dropped a pair of trousers off at the cleaner's this morning, but they're not going to get the coffee stains out." He shrugged, crossing his arms lethargically across his chest. "Sorry about that."

"How?" Lestrade repeated, and when Sherlock didn't respond immediately, Lestrade's face darkened. "Spying on me, then?" he hissed, and he was so furious he felt like picking up the nearest object—a dog-eared book on lock-picking, of all things—and throwing it at Sherlock's face. "Your brother certainly wasn't above it; I suppose you aren't, either!"

"_Wrong!_" Sherlock barked, and for the first time since their meeting his voice was laced with an undercurrent of emotion, unidentifiable but strong. "In fact," he said, "until you walked into my flat today, I'd never seen you before in my life."

"Then tell me how," said Lestrade. "Explain how you did that. _Prove it_." Sherlock smiled as though it was the cue he'd been waiting a lifetime for.

"Start with the hands," he murmured, his voice half instructive, half trance-like. "They say the eyes are the window to the soul, but the truth is, you should always start with the hands. You have old scars on your fingers leftover from calluses formed by repetitive labor; they're in the wrong places for any instrument, so not a musician, but you've tied that I.D. tag to your case using a double fisherman's knot. You're clearly not a navy man, and so, what? You learned to sail in your youth. Simple. And the smoking was easy enough—the space between your middle and index fingers is stained from tobacco, lightly enough to tell me you don't smoke heavily but dark enough to show you can't quite give it up. You probably started trying ages ago, but you're giving it a more honest effort now that you have a job that can require intense physical exertion, and, judging by the fact that there's a fleck of red nail polish near your right pocket left by your new wife when she nicked your few emergency cigarettes from your coat, she'd be all too thrilled to see you quit. And she is your _new _wife; you've been fiddling with the wedding ring on your finger since you arrived because you're not yet accustomed to wearing it." He paused, piercing Lestrade with those grey eyes. "Anything wrong so far?" Lestrade only shook his head.

"Good. Now, you stuttered when introducing yourself over the intercom. Why? Because you're not used to your new title, but also because the attention it draws makes you uncomfortable. That lack of confidence stems from an old injury—I can see the subtle scarring around your left cheekbone—and now you wear a contact in that eye to make up for your permanently damaged eyesight. You favor that eye and that side of your face, though I doubt you know you do it still. Moving on: you didn't wear a scarf today, the first truly cold day of the season, but you didn't forget anything else and so you left it on purpose, out of spite, because you don't want to admit that winter's setting in and dress for it properly. So you're stubborn, like I said, and you suffer because of it, on the job and off. Congratulations for putting your coat on, at least, and it's clean of animal hairs, even though the corner of your case has been repeatedly chewed sometime in the past. A dog, judging by the teeth marks. It's either died since then or you've been forced to give it away, but you don't have pets now, and with your new job, you won't have time for pets in the future."

Sherlock finished the little speech with a gesticulated flourish, and though Lestrade was nearly numb with awe and disbelief, he did have enough sense to recognize that a great change had come over Sherlock as he'd been speaking: his face was now almost flushed with pride, and his chest was heaving, his eyes shining with that same brilliant light Lestrade had seen in them earlier for just a moment and which had reminded him so much of Mycroft, though Sherlock's eyes were somehow warmer, even in their strangeness. In short, Sherlock looked ready to burst with childlike excitement, nearly glowing with a radiance that was part pure brilliance and part total vindication. And somehow Lestrade knew, knew as though he'd witnessed a perfect miracle: it was true. It was all real.

"Bloody hell," he whispered, lowering himself weak-kneed into the nearest chair, not even bothering to wipe it clean of the rubbish covering the seat. "The trousers…" he finally managed. "How did you—"

"The ticket's sticking out of your coat pocket," Sherlock interrupted, speaking quickly. "And I knew about the stains because you have coffee stains on the trousers you're wearing now, old stains and new, and in the same place—you have a habit of spilling coffee there, probably as you drink it at your desk."

"And the stains won't be removed because…"

"Because that's a terrible cleaner's," Sherlock answered immediately, as though it was the most obvious statement ever made. And then, just like that, it was done, every bit of it explained. Proof.

Lestrade's mouth was dry. He knew he shouldn't, he knew a thousand reasons why he shouldn't, and yet even as he was telling himself this was the biggest mistake of his life he found himself nodding his head. "Right then," he rasped. "Okay. You're hired."

Sherlock's laugh was something like a shriek, wild and unapologetically loud, and without a moment's hesitation he flung himself over the coffee table, clearing the chessboard and skull with ease, bearing down on Lestrade and clasping the man by the shoulders so their faces were just inches apart.

"Tell me about the case," he breathed, nearly vibrating with sheer energy. "Now. Tell me _everything._"

And Lestrade did. He started at the beginning, carefully working his way through each of the three grisly murders as best he could. Sherlock stopped him occasionally, asking him to elaborate a certain detail or clarify a point, but for the most part he was silent through the account, drinking in the Detective Inspector's words like a parched and dying man drinks in water. And when Lestrade finished, Sherlock released him and stood back, closing his eyes and furrowing his brow in deep concentration.

"I'm going to need more evidence," he finally said, eyes snapping open. "When the fourth murder occurs, you're going to need to let me see the crime scene. Before the police crawl all over it and ruin the evidence, of course."

"The _fourth _murder?!" cried Lestrade, hardly noticing the insult to his own men inherent in Sherlock's request. "What do you mean? How could you possibly know—"

"The symbol," said Sherlock simply, as both an answer and a request. He reached his hand out to Lestrade. "Do you have a copy?"

"Erm, yes…" Lestrade answered, and, too overwhelmed to protest, he opened his case, shuffling through its contents before pulling out a piece of paper. "I made a photocopy of the one we found on Haskell," he mumbled weakly. "Here." Sherlock grabbed it, letting his eyes spill over it completely.

"And the orientation?" he murmured softly, not taking his eyes from the page. "It's been different every time?" Lestrade blinked.

"What do you mean?" he asked, confused by the question. "It's a circle—it can't have different orientations." Sherlock frowned, annoyed.

"It's not a _perfect _circle," he said, flipping the paper around to show Lestrade. "See? It's hand drawn, and not with a compass. You can tell the orientation based on the oblong shape. What's important is that you said you've found this _exact same _hand drawn circle at each murder." His finger traced the perimeter to the top. "You found it orientated like this with Haskell, but my guess is that you found it like _this—_" he rotated the paper around 90 degrees counter-clockwise "—at the second murder, and like _this—_" he rotated it again in the same fashion "—at the first. Or something similar; you'll have to look through the evidence and get back to me."

"In any case," Sherlock continued, turning from a stunned Lestrade and scooping a shirt and pair of trousers from the floor, "the circle's divided into four quarters." He shed his robe and pulled the clothes on quickly. "Four quarters means four people which means four murders." He looped a belt through his trousers, then bent down to his hands and knees, rooting through the mess on the floor for socks and shoes, a wallet, and a black pea coat stuffed under the couch for reasons the Detective Inspector couldn't comprehend. "Get it?" Sherlock asked, standing up and turning to Lestrade, found items in hand. "It's not a symbol. It's a sign—a sign for four people, who, for reasons I've yet to determine, have been marked to be killed." He took a deep breath, clearly pleased with himself. "And now, Detective Inspector, I have one more question for you, if you don't mind." Lestrade looked up, staring at the face of this wonderful, terrible, madman before him, who was currently wrapping a scarf about his neck.

"Yes?"

"What did you think of my brother?"

Lestrade didn't know how Sherlock knew of his meeting with Mycroft, or where the question came from, or why. But even in his addled state Lestrade could read the slight reservation in Sherlock's eyes, and knew that his answer could make or break his budding relationship with the consulting detective. But Lestrade didn't know what Sherlock wanted to hear, and had no idea at all what to say. So he decided, against all better judgment, to tell the truth.

"Your brother is perhaps the most pompous, insufferable git I've ever met," Lestrade deadpanned. "He is absolutely terrible. I hope I never see him again." Sherlock's face broke into a wide smile, and another peal of shriek-like laughter bubbled from his lips.

"_That_," he said once he'd collected himself, "is a very apt impression." He held out his hand to Lestrade and helped him up from the chair. "There's hope for Scotland Yard yet." And before Lestrade even had time to register offense, Sherlock clapped him on the back, directing him to the door. "Now, out we go, Detective Inspector," he said cheerily. "We've got a murderer to catch! Oh and here, let me get that for you." And with a grin he reached around Lestrade's side, opening the door for him to show him out.

The cold bit fiercely into both men as they stepped from the building onto the pavement.

"How am I supposed to contact you?" asked Lestrade to Sherlock, whose eyes were wide and bright and seemed to be aware of everything happening on the busy street at once. "Can I have your mobile number?"

"Oh, don't worry about that, Inspector," said Sherlock, flipping his collar up against the wind and starting down the street. "I'll be in contact with _you_."

"Well then at least let me give you my card!" Lestrade called after him, not liking the idea of his setting this crazed man upon London with no means of finding him again. He reached into his jacket pocket, then froze: his badge, which he usually kept in that pocket as well, was gone. "What the…" he murmured, feeling a small sense of panic erupt in his chest as he quickly padded his other pockets, searching, all the while tracing his steps backwards through the day in an attempt to remember if he could've somehow dropped it or left it or had it stolen—

And in that instant Lestrade realized: Sherlock, directing him from behind as they left the flat, Sherlock, face alight with that odd, sideways smile, Sherlock, just barely brushing against Lestrade's side as he so _courteously _opened the door for the Detective Inspector…

"_Bastard_," Lestrade breathed.

And he spun about wildly, searching. But Sherlock had already disappeared into the crowd.


End file.
